The Call of the Grey
by MiiYuKira
Summary: It was an end, one that we all chose, over the other mundane lives we could have lived. The final battleground of our lives, the last fight that we could have had- it came upon too soon. It was a lie we avoided, and its dregs soon haunted our sleep.
1. The Call of the Fallen

**A/N: So this was inspired by the awesome trailer that I saw a while back on youtube; you know, the one where there's this single Warden in the Deep Roads.**

**Music that I would set to this:**

_**Hurricane**_**, by 30 seconds to Mars for the first chapter, and then,**

_**Fallen**_**, also by 30 Seconds to Mars (I really LOVE this band. They're awesome.)**

**Hope you like it— and I really enjoyed writing—even as sad as it is. (Thanks to Jaden Anderson for her input! xD)**

* * *

><p><strong>The Call of the Grey<strong>

Keian

He paused, listening intently. In the crisp air sounds carried far, and he heard the world settle down, seemingly into slumber. The sun had set, and a rich darkness had fallen. The night sky was remarkable, brilliant in its celestial charts—these he rarely looked at, but better late than never. Keian knew that it was the last time he would lift his eyes to the indigo velvet that was the heavens. He marveled at how endless it all was, even to those who were about to die. The world would move on without them, as it had done for centuries, ages—inconsequential, everything was.

The horses snuffled, huddled together a ways from their riders. They all needed to rest, after days of hard riding, traversing plains and forests alike, if only to reach the valley—and its entrance. All that was left were the sounds of his fellow Wardens, their quiet breaths soothing him, forcing him to accept their situation for what it was.

It had been a good few years.

xOxOx

The valley near Urthemiel's Plateau was not as lush as the forests they had left—barely any trees grew in the region, though the grass was now rather plentiful. These hardy plants grew where they could, the scorched ground all but eradicated under the green. Wardings which had been left in place by the last contingent were indeed keeping the darkspawn at bay— a whole house of dwarves had managed to repair the ancient constructs— which included a large, sturdy set of stone doors.

Their mounts they entrusted to the people who were living in the Valley—elvhen who respected their presence and calling; they would treat these creatures well, far better than any human he knew. Others would come to retrieve these equines, in time. They were valuable to many. The Wardens said farewells with the gentle brushing of their horses' manes, rubbing down and feeding the companions who had carried them thus far with no complaint.

Rouletté—his was named, for the wild spirit contained within the strong steady form that belied the stallion's tempestuous nature. Keian raised a hand, but the animal only moved its flanks out of his reach, cantering a short way—before turning to face him, eyeing him— the Orlesian Commander with _such_ an accusatory look.

"Oh stop it. This might be the very last time you'll see me, and _this_ is the farewell I get?"

He grinned, beckoning the large creature to him. It had been a few brief years, but they had bonded terrifically—each finding the other a challenge from the beginning. The animal pawed at the ground, huffing in annoyance, before shuffling grumpily over to the silver-haired man.

Both of them had that in common, it seemed. They shared the colour of their closely-cropped tresses, as well as brief flashes of collective thought—though everyone had attributed _that_ to the similarity they bore.

"So… this is it. Take care now." He patted the charger's flank with some finality and the horse huffed again, snorting—not unkindly— at such sentimentality.

Keian agreed. Such words did not suit him, though they needed to be said.

xOxOx

The horde had been waiting for them, though the sheer numbers shocked none among the seasoned fighters in the party. Seven they were—their time had come together, although Keian was suspicious of Ciel's supposed _dreams_. She claimed to share the similar onset of their taint, but refused to reveal the location of her decay—the dark splotches that were now claiming their bodies, inch by inch.

Night after night being assailed with the grunts and roars of darkspawn, being the darkspawn, eating, tearing, killing—mayhem was the only word available. Villages ruined, blood darkening the land—committing these stains and other sins upon humanity, to all that happened to lie in the path of the horde. No one wanted that—slowly becoming the things which they fought. And yet, it was hard to remember why they became Grey Wardens in the first place—submitting to a fate so abhorred that they began to be revered as heroes.

Imagine the chaos if word got out that Grey Wardens became darkspawn after years of fighting the taint. That would be the end of the recruits.

Not that it mattered.

One could always conscript.

Keian smiled fondly at that—he had been a conscript, a boy who had found out too much about the Order. He had almost been drafted from Jader to Val Royueax to become a templar.

So he submitted, thanking all that was good for the chance to escape the clutches of the Chantry. He did not travel to Orlais from Ferelden just so that he could become a lay brother, or an oppressor who answered to the White Divine.

He belonged in the dark, his skills with the sword and shield much more effective against the ravaging beasts than guarding a tower full of skittish men and women. That and the celibacy vows they wanted him to take were simply ridiculous.

The dreams had started again, only about a month or so ago. Then, there were the patches— grey blotches on his tanned skin that were so obvious when he trained topless in the courtyards. Everyone saw them, but none commented on these, except Ciel. Her bluntness was what he had admired, and once she pointed that out, several men came forward with confessions of their own.

Gerard, Marc, Caleb, Damien and Jacques. They felt the Calling upon them, too.

These men fought valiantly, back to back, but even they began to tire as the bodies of the darkspawn and blighted spiders piled up on their way—further into the Deep Roads. As doomed as they were—_Kal Sharok_ was their goal. Some exploration was due before one sank into the darkness—Keian believed. Also, it was a goal one could definitely work towards, in the chaos of the Deep Roads.

xOxOx

He was winded, but frankly, he was just surprised to find himself still able to breathe. Keian cracked open an eyelid—a red mist of pain was obscuring his vision. This cleared shortly after, but the aches persisted, dull and stabbing, continued throbbing in his joints, his head, his chest.

Blinking and swearing, he sat up, tensing himself for the prospect of battle. The path ahead was clear, bits and pieces of what must have been the damned beasts lay scattered around. How long had he been out? Why wasn't he dead? Something was not quite right.

He heard a despairing wheeze to his right, and he turned slowly to face it, his neck twingeing something terrible—focusing his eyes on the gasping woman next to him.

Ciel. She was alive.

But she would not be so for much longer— her silver and blue armor was pierced straight through by five arrows and a spear. Briefly, he marveled that she had not already passed out from the loss of blood; such a lot of it was pooled around her.

Ciel made an attempt to rise when she saw him, but Keian shook his head, placing a hand on her shoulder, motioning for her to lie still. A rivulet of dark blood left its long trail down her chin—and yet, still she spoke. She was indeed like a mule, stubborn to the end.

Her honey-coloured hair was matted with bits of gore, but she seemed radiant—even in such a state.

"I'm glad they didn't take you," she began, before grimacing slightly. "Well, at least, not yet." Grey Wardens always lost out to the taint. It was the eventual result.

"Who— the darkspawn?" Keian's words were wry, and he was surprised at how loud they sounded in the dead (pun not intended) of the tunnels. This was why he hated the Deep Roads. One always felt like whispering, the echoes were hideous.

Ciel smiled, in lieu of replying. Her pupils were clouding over, but it was not brought on by the pain. It was another—one far more debilitating. He knew that she was not long for this world.

"You—slew these? "Keian gestured around them. Ciel was mainly their healer— and terrible at primal magic; it was indeed remarkable for her to accomplish such a feat. An army of the slain piled around them— a great deal more than he first recognised. They seemed to have fallen where they stood, unmarked by any wound. Keian did not believe it—but the conclusion was bare.

"Blood magic?" He muttered aloud, staring at the dying woman in shock. She had hated the dark arts with vehemence, having fled from the Ferelden Circle's corruption, to Orlais, joining the Order at Jader.

_Surana_— _Ciel Surana; _she had whispered then, when they found her crouching under the eaves of the Eastern guardhouse. The templars had come for her afterwards, and were turned away. It was one of Keian's finest moments. He hated the Chantry.

The elf grinned, exposing some bloodstained teeth before gasping out words—and her guttural voice stabbed at him, each one agonizingly enunciated.

"It was worth a try. _You're_ alive, Commander." She seemed almost proud of herself. Keian could hardly believe it—although it certainly explained his own unscathed self.

"You _healed_ me too? What is _wrong_ with you— wasting your mana like that?"

By the Void, he was yelling at a _dying_ comrade, he belatedly realized— the last shred of clarity that was left in his mind made him positively ashamed and he stopped, mentally slapping himself. He was an ass.

Watching him so conflicted, Ciel coughed violently, and Keian touched her, wishing that he too was a mage. He could have healed her. It was then he realised that she was laughing, sounds of mirth mixed with her choking gurgles. Somehow, bizarrely enough, he understood her reaction. He was a right fool.

Something else bothered him.

"Am I to understand that it isn't even time for _your_ Calling?" The small elvhen figure shrugged, words seemed to be no longer possible. She then waved her hands weakly—and he leant down, sorely regretting that he had brought her along. He had always suspected it. But he'd never confronted her.

He'd been too self-absorbed with the prospect of his own death to bother.

"Go. _Kal sharok_ awaits."

Those were her last words, and saying thus, _she_ slipped away, a grim smile on her discolored lips. He wished that he had something else to say, to thank her, to berate her further—to tell her that he'd loved her. But all along, he realized that she'd always known.

Of the original seven who set off from Jader, Keian was now the only one left.

xOxOx


	2. The Final Battle

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow

Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,

You cannot say, or guess, for you know only

A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,

And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,

And the dry stone no sound of water. Only

There is shadow under this red rock,

(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),

* * *

><p>The ogre lowered its horns and charged, but a running leap took Keian to the shoulders of the snarling beast. Thus, he took it down with a blade through its skull. When it came crashing down, the carcass crushed several more darkspawn— thus ending the battle, for now.<p>

Still, everywhere he turned, he felt that infernal whispering in his ears, under his skin, bubbling in his blood—the taint was all around. The only benefit he found to that was that the darkspawn simply could not get a drop on him; his arms moved before the rest of him reacted—dashing his shield into the sneaking beasts before swiftly driving his blade deep into its innards.

He did not feel proud, however, at his increased prowess with the weapons. He had no one to defend, no one to fight alongside, no one but himself in the Deep Roads. He would have never admitted it to anyone— but he was feeling incredibly lonely.

From time to time, images surfaced, and not just in his mind's eye— Gerard's twin blades flashing in the eerie lights that lit the tunnels. He had been a volunteer, a recruit from the Capital, a prodigal son who wanted nothing to do with the slovenly nobles that made up the rest of his family. He had all but demanded his way into the Order twenty years ago, but being with the Wardens had made sure that Gerard spent a lot less time brooding about the banality of politics.

_Twisting around, rendering a blow to a hurlock's ugly mug._

There was Marc, a Templar who had fallen in love with a mage, and had left the Order when the Holy Divine had ordered her execution on several suspected counts of blood magic. He made a fine reaver with his double handed blade, though he possessed very little by the way of humour.

_"None but the Maker shall forever last; and I shall show you fear in a handful of dust."_

Keian could have sworn that he still heard the man's version of the Chant ringing in the hollow caverns. Those words were always depressing, oddly poetic though they were.

_Ducking and weaving, he evaded rocks and landed a fatal stab into an emissary's throat._

He lost track of time— it could have been centuries for all he cared, there was no sun, nothing but an eternal darkness. Nothing but more of the tainted behind those doors—those doors to _Kal Sharok_.

Damien would have made a remark about the dwarven architecture—the height of the ceilings seemed to be more than enough for such a vertically-challenged people.

"_Do you come here often?"_

He was a thief, but an excellent shot (and handy by way of some lockpicking expertise)—always sardonic in his manners. He prided himself on his Antivan heritage, but always made a poor Lothario with his unfortunate choice of words.

_Almost unthinkingly, the blade he took from the body of a darkspawn was driven home into another, the thrust deadly – it found the heart in one swift blow._

Memories haunted, the wisps of these, taunting by remaining just out of his reach, with the clarity of murmurs, of loud raucous laughter that once echoed through the halls of the Jader compounds. Keian saw these, heard these, but he was not fooled.

How easy it was to walk away, to yearn the past that was now lost—to return to the surface and live out the rest of his days in peace. But he could not.

Caleb and Jacques would not forgive him—the pair had been inseparable even in death. The three of them had survived the Joining together; they were the oldest friends Keian had. He knew that they were lovers, but he did not judge, even though many did.

"_Solace is found wherever it was offered; and our love is as good as any." One of them; he forgot which one, had said this once—oh so solemnly. This turned out to be true. _

_A shield he grabbed, and blocked the blow. It did not matter that he had barely felt it coming an instant before. It was the follow-through that mattered most, and when the borrowed sword bit into the decaying flesh, he did not even hear the thing's screams. He was deaf to such pathetic cries._

xOxOx

He no longer saw _a_ single reality, but the world and life were not closed to him now. It was reality itself that was closed off, the doors to his mind were shut, denying all that he saw, rejecting all but the imminent eternity that lay ahead.

Death was a release, a most welcome rest.

_It was a lie, he repeated in his head. A beautiful lie that he had lived, as many have, before him. Honour, Truth, Might, only counted when one had others to protect. It meant nothing once all that was gone._

The doors opened when he concentrated and the essence of the Fade coursed through Keian, cleansing his mind, if only briefly, of the thundering roar of bloodlust. He was a spirit warrior, and from behind his eyes pulsed the eerie glow that emanated straight from the Fade. This was the final charge.

Keian , the ex-Commander of the Orlesian Grey Wardens only shouldered his shield forward, a strange glitter in his silver eyes. His words were now a whisper.

"_I will join you in the darkness soon, my brothers and sisters."_

* * *

><p>And I will show you something different from either<p>

Your shadow at morning striding behind you

Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;

I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

~T. S. Eliot- The Wasteland~


End file.
